as the world burns
by king.needlemouse
Summary: He's been drowning for a long time. And, somewhere along the way, he's forgotten how to breathe.
1. Chapter 1

**skdjghjd so! i've been working on this thing since like. february? and i'm very excited to finally post hehe**

**essentially it's just: sonadow + winter soldier + alien apocalypse :)**

**so yk. have fun lol. be warned, swearing/gore aplenty.**

* * *

He's been drowning for a long time. Too long. And, somewhere along the way, he's forgotten how to breathe.

* * *

The soldier opens his eyes and stares back at himself through the foggy mirror. Cold, glassy green orbs are locked onto his own, completely detached, hardened. His quills are blue but they're washed out and mussed up and a little greasy. He vaguely wonders about the last time he's showered. It's probably been a while. He can't remember.

He can't remember much of anything. Just his core purpose. He completes a mission and he's promptly wiped. Flickers of some memories linger behind—driving his blade into his target's writhing body; standing under the shower and watching cakey blood swirl around his feet into the drain.

_—gentle hands running along his form, soft and caressing, a voice whispering fondly to him, and it's so distant, like he's drowning, like he's stuck in a dream—_

The soldier blinks and stands, still watching his reflection. He takes a moment to straighten his posture. Tugs at his gloves and looks over the black suit of thick armor he wears: durable enough to protect him from most attacks, yet light enough to accommodate for his nimble form. He taps his finger over the sensor at the back of his neck and the nanotechnology activates, hard material gliding over his face. Inky black swallowing pale blue.

Staring back at him through the mirror is a perfect soldier, coated in perfect armor. He cannot see his dead expression or detached green eyes anymore. Just a black figure, and two transparent red eye pieces—impeccable almond shapes that permit him to not just see, but trace any movement in a one-hundred foot radius, scan any sort of necessary components, and easily deduce the most efficient pathways whilst navigating.

That is what he is designed for. Efficiency. Perfection.

The soldier is awake now because he has been ordered to accomplish a new mission. He is to locate a Black Arms hive (because they've overrun the planet, and his handler is still trying to deal with taking care of them—_he's_ supposed to conquer the world, not _them_) and assassinate the commander of that specific outpost. The soldier has been told that this is not the first time the Black Arms invaded the planet. They came here, once, many years ago, and failed. Now, they're back, and hungry for power.

He grabs his dagger tailored perfectly to his fighting style and balanced to fit his hand just as well. And he sets out.

* * *

"Peculiar," the alien hisses into his face, pinning him against the slimy black wall of the hive. Scattered around them is a graveyard of other Black Arms the soldier managed to eliminate. This alien, the one pressing him down with a blaster aimed to his head, is the last one, and a rather pathetic, scrawny one too.

The soldier has almost accomplished his mission. But he is failing it, and he has been failing it. He failed the second he caught the attention of one of the aliens while lurking in the shadows, trying to sneak seamlessly into the hive and assassinate his target—their commander. He wasn't supposed to have to kill all of them. But then they found him and they attacked and he had no choice but to fight back and now he has a fucking gun to his head.

He tilts his head away from nozzle of the blaster, watching the alien intently. He feels this twinge of panic stirring in his gut, and he's sure it shows in his green eyes. Thankfully, all the alien can perceive is the two red opticals from his mask. It is better this way. He cannot demonstrate emotion to the enemy, as that subsequently demonstrates weakness.

Claws curl around his throat and the gun is pressed harder to his head. "Such a little thing you are. A mobian. And yet you managed to slaughter my entire hive. It will be fun to take you to Black Doom and dissect you."

The soldier is not bothered by these words. He does not feel fear. The panic in his chest is just a fallacy. His handler will surely wipe it once he reports back to him.

He is already calculating his next move when a gunshot rings through the air, and the alien looming over him explodes into a disgusting splatter of black blood and flesh. Its remains drip down his armor. It does not disturb him. His handler will clean it when he reports back to him.

Wordlessly, the soldier throws the mangled corpse off of him, watching disinterestedly as it bleeds into the pristine, dewy grass. When he looks up there is a new figure, gun aimed in his direction; it is highly probable that this is the person who killed the alien. It is undecided if the person is a threat or not. However, the former is more likely.

As the figure approaches, slow and cautious, the soldier can start to make out his features despite the dark veil of the night. The technology built into his helmet is built just for this.

The mask deciphers for him that the stranger is _Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion._

There are three sides to this war: the Black Arms, the rebellion, and his own, the empire. The soldier does not take kindly to the first two.

In one single, smooth motion, he grabs the deceased alien's gun from the ground and aims it right back at Shadow the Hedgehog. His opponent stiffens and raises his own weapon.

"I just saved your fucking life, and that's the thanks I get?" he barks. Hostile. Violent. His handler has various records on Shadow the Hedgehog, the soldier realizes as he searches through the databases in his helmet. Shadow the Hedgehog is unpredictable—at one point in time, he was aligned with his handler, but for the better part of the last decade, he has sided with the rebellion—or rather, the entire rest of society that has always opposed his handler, even before the war.

The 'rebellion' is such a strange term, in the soldier's opinion. They aren't exactly a rebellion. It's just all of the humans and mobians opposed to the Black Arms, but equally opposed to his handler's methods. He cannot comprehend why anybody would be opposed to his handler, because doing as his handler instructs is all he knows. However, he does not have any specified opinion on the rebellion. He's not supposed to have any opinions on anything; he's supposed to complete the tasks assigned to him.

Regardless, his handler has ingrained the concept in his mind that any aligned with the rebellion is an enemy, and should be dealt with accordingly.

The soldier poises his finger over the trigger but he doesn't shoot. He doesn't know why. Perhaps it is his current orders still laced with his mission he just completed (failed): only kill the leader, and avoid any other possible conflicts. Perhaps this conflict is avoidable. He cannot upset his handler any more than he already has.

Shadow the Hedgehog looks terse. He shifts his weight. He's wearing an old bomber jacket, a washed out olive green, decorated with various pins.

"Look," his opponent says, and it is evident that he is attempting to deescalate the situation from the softer look in his eyes and the way his hand twitches, nearly wanting to lower his own gun. The soldier does not waver. "I know you work for Robotnik. I've seen you around. But can we just call a truce? We both have a common enemy."

The soldier considers this. That is true: both the rebellion and his handler's empire share the same enemy of the Black Arms. But that is how this war is. It is a triangle. The same could be said that the rebellion and aliens share a common enemy, that the aliens and empire share a common enemy.

Orders blare across his mind that he cannot trust anybody except his handler. His handler is his priority. His handler knows best. _Don't trust anybody but me. _The soldier thinks his head hurts a little.

_Avoid conflict._

"Leave now," the soldier says. His voice comes out distorted from the modulator on his mask, intended to hide his identity. He's never understood its purpose—he is nothing more than an asset that accomplishes tasks for his handler, what is there to hide? But he does not openly question it. "Do not follow me, or I will be forced to kill you."

Shadow the Hedgehog's eyes narrow to slits. "Fuck you too."

The soldier disregards him and warps back to his handler's headquarters with the aid of the Chaos Emerald in his possession. He cradles it tentatively in his hands as he is then berated and lectured by his handler for ruining his mission. His emerald makes him feel warm and safe. He likes to feel the weight of it in his palms. It is soothing; it glows a constant, unyielding blue. It makes him feel better.

_He is not supposed to feel._

As a punishment for compromising his task, the soldier's emerald is confiscated for the next forty-eight hours and he is sent to stand in isolation in his chamber; he is not allowed to sit or move, simply to stand and stare at the wall and prove he is not broken or crumbling. If he fails this task, more torture will be induced, and he will be wiped. The soldier thinks he should be wiped, because he is not supposed to feel scared when an alien points a gun at his head, he is not supposed to hesitate instead of shooting an enemy, he is not supposed to miss his emerald.

But whenever he is wiped, electric jolts rocket across his body and burn him alive and make him scream till his vocal chords are raw. And when he wakes up he's disoriented and nauseas and he feels like he's being pulled deeper and deeper underwater. He doesn't _want_ to be wiped.

So instead, the soldier does not tell his handler about his intruding thoughts of panic and doubt and sorrow. Instead, the soldier abides by his command and stares at the wall for the designated forty-eight hours, even when his legs tremble beneath him and his muscles are alight in a scalding agony. After all, this should not bother him in the slightest. He is not supposed to feel.

(Somewhere, buried in the deepest depths of himself, so deeply submerged that everything is pitch black and the pressure is pulsing against his head, he screams for somebody to pull him out of the water.)

* * *

Shadow doesn't know how long it's been. Too long, he thinks.

The Black Arms invaded Mobius a little over a year ago, and the war and calamity has been consistently long and incessant. It doesn't help that Eggman has joined the fight, somewhere between good and evil, for the most part lurking in the shadows and watching everything unfold. The doctor is on his own side, with motives nobody can quite decipher yet because he's a hermit in how he hides away in whatever secret base he has.

A lot of people have died. Too many people. The aliens are slowly but surely winning and things are looking really bleak. In the span of fifteen months they managed to transform the entire planet into a wasteland.

They're losing hope. Shadow is losing hope. He supposes he's never quite had it, not since he lost Sonic. Sonic was his beacon of hope. Now he grapples with trying to indulge whatever remnants of him Shadow can still cling to, in fleeting memories and dusty relics that lay around his room.

Sonic has been gone since before the Black Arms appeared for their second conquest of Mobius. And with him, everybody else seems to be gone too, in a way. They're all just husks of themselves, helplessly trying to outlast the aliens because it's all they can do, it's what Sonic would have wanted them to do.

Shadow doesn't think he can keep this up for much longer.

He's so tired.

* * *

The next time Shadow sees him, he's fighting a swarm of Black Arm grunts. He stands back for a little while, taking the time to observe the battle. The stranger—one of Eggman's lackeys, he presumes, is swift and efficient in his fighting style. And he's fast. So fast Shadow can barely keep his eyes on him as he jumps from alien to alien, slicing them down effortlessly with his obsidian blade.

When the stranger is done he just stands there for a few minutes, panting, dangling the blade idly from his fingers. His armor is a strange getup, Shadow muses. It's practically spandex, but of something thicker and probably bulletproof. There's extra padding over his abs and joints and shoulders. The helmet he wears is slick and shiny to match the few, mostly decorative bits of metal along the bodysuit. The faceplate is minimalistic, with two large red snake-eyes carved out for him to see. It looks extremely high-tech and rather advanced for Eggman, but, well. The doctor always liked to show off.

Suddenly the stranger stiffens and turns to face him. Shadow is impressed. He's cloaked in the darkness of a collapsed building while the other stands in the middle of an alien graveyard, in midday lighting in a deserted city street. Those eerie eye-pieces must give him the ability to see things easier. They vaguely remind Shadow of the same optics that spider-super-hero-guy has, from those comic books Sonic used to read and obsess over.

He points his bloodied dagger in his direction, and it's hardly even a threat because Shadow has a gun, what's a stupid knife going to do? He's still a bit rigid, but his body language is rather lax despite that—clearly he is not too wary of Shadow. This irks rebel. _He should be more scared._

"Shadow the Hedgehog," says Eggman's lackey, hardly moving. Whatever voice-modulator he's wearing, it makes it deep and static-y. "What do you want." It's barely a question.

Cautiously, he steps into the low lighting of the afternoon, his fingers twitching for the pocket of his jacket that hides his gun. "Just searching for supplies. You?"

His grip tightens on the knife hilt. "My business does not concern you."

Shadow rolls his eyes. "Listen, I don't care about what you're doing, if I'm being honest. You made it clear the other night that you don't want to be affiliated with me, so be my guest, walk away."

A blade glides seamlessly through the air and nicks Shadow's ear. He blinks, mostly in shock, and touches a finger to it. When pulls it back down, there is blood soaking through his white glove.

What the _fuck._

The agent snarls. He cannot see his opponent's face, except for those unblinking red ovals for eyes that seem to sear right through him, but Shadow knows he's being cast a disdainful, bored look just from the posture of the stranger.

"You serve the rebellion," comes the artificial voice, and anger flickers across Shadow's features.

"Fuck off, I don't serve anybody."

The stranger cocks his head curiously, like a cat. "Then what is your purpose?"

Shadow knits his brows. "My what?"

But his rival is already lunging for him, a fist already connecting with his cheek and sending him sprawling across the asphalt. Shadow spits out a glob of blood and leaps back to his feet, sending an equally strong punch into his gut. The stranger staggers backwards, and Shadow takes this opportunity to draw his gun. It seems to dawn on the stranger that he is currently unarmed from that little knife-throwing stunt he pulled earlier.

_ Hmph. Shows him not to mess with me._

"Enough games," Shadow snaps, already quivering in a ravenous, untamed fury that courses through his blood. "What do you want from me?"

A pause. "… You are the enemy."

"I saved your life, asshole."

"That does not excuse your allegiance."

Shadow runs a tired hand across his face. "Look. You work for Eggman, I don't. I get it. But can't we just mind our own business? I have no dirt with you. It looks like we're both just trying to stop those fucking aliens, so why waste energy killing each other?"

The stranger falters, then his shoulders drop minutely. "Fine."

An odd noise fills the air and both males turn towards the source. It's a pod—those stupid aircrafts the Black Arms pilot around, typically carrying at least fifteen of the damn things inside. And it's landing just down the street, surely to attack whoever just murdered their brethren.

Shadow grits his teeth. "Shit. This is your doing, you know. Maybe don't go openly attacking them on your own. It just makes them more angry."

"I do as I am told. I can handle them, and if not, then I am useless."

Shadow wants to strangle this guy. Is this some kind of joke?

No time. A herd of Black Arms are already scrambling out of the pod and racing towards them, out of that pure, animalistic bloodlust they all seem to share. Reluctantly, Shadow shifts to aim his gun at them, instead of the stranger.

"Let's just focus on taking care of this, alright?"

The stranger is already retrieving his dagger before he strides past the ebony hedgehog, prideful and steadfast. "I don't need your help."

They fight in a tense silence, broken only by the screeches and snarls of the aliens that thrash towards them. Black alien blood splatters across the street and onto both of them. They don't necessarily assist each other, just do their part in taking down the swarm. Within five minutes they're alone again, surrounded by goopy, twitching corpses.

Silently, the stranger regards him, before turning on his heel to leave.

"Wait," Shadow says before he can think. The stranger stills. "Who—Who are you, anyway?"

He doesn't even look back to him. "I have no name."

The stranger is enveloped in an orb of blue light, and then Shadow is all alone.

* * *

That night the soldier screams. The past week has been fine, he has accomplished every task his handler assigned to him. But it has been a week. Wipes are obligatory every seven days, regardless of how good he has been.

He is bolted to a chair, a chair that's too cold and too hard against his skin. Electricity rips him apart, tearing across his body and stabbing into his pores and setting him on fire. Everything becomes a haze. He can't remember where he is or what he is. He thinks his face feels wet with something, tears maybe, but he can't tell. His body burns so badly that he becomes numb to it and all he can do is stare emptily at the dark ceiling. The screams die in his throat.

When the electricity subsides he is trembling and he feels so utterly empty. Everything is discombobulated. He doesn't know where he is.

A man stands before him in a black and red jumpsuit, teasing the ends of his thick mustache. The man watches him disinterestedly.

_His handler._ The soldier recollects what he can. He knows he is safe, here, under his handler's eye. He must be about to commence his next mission. Yes. Complete his mission. That is what he must do. He has to, it's all he knows.

He tries to remember his previous mission, but it's all a haze of blood and aliens and pain and a mysterious black hedgehog. His head hurts.

He looks back to his handler, straightening in the chair. Sweat is dripping down his chin and his body still twitches from the electricity but he remains as still as he can. He is to please his handler in any way possible. "I am ready for my mission."

His handler smiles.

* * *

The soldier is vaguely aware that he is bleeding out. He can't really tell what's going on. His vision is blurring and the red tint his mask applies to his surroundings only further hinders it. He's slouched against the ground, pinned down by the massive corpse of a newly deceased alien. It's claws still linger on his chest, where it drew the large gash across it.

He tries to shove the thing off, but his muscles refuse to work. The alien is pressing against his lungs. He will die soon if he cannot remove it. This is not helpful towards his mission. He will fail, and that will disappoint his handler. And he cannot disappoint his handler.

When the alien finally rolls off of him the soldier thinks it to be a miracle. But it is not. There is a figure looming over him now, probably mobian, who must have pushed it off. The soldier presses his hand to his chest, where he can feel blood pouring out.

The figure kneels beside him. "Shit. Are—Are you alright?"

The soldier narrows his eyes and sucks in a tight breath. He does not recognize this person, although they look strangely familiar. He runs the facial recognition software in his mask. "Shadow the… H-Hedgehog," he rasps, because it's all he can really do.

The text he reads in his vision proceeds to tell him that Shadow the Hedgehog works for the rebellion. He should deal with this matter. He should not trust him.

He wants to trust him.

"Fuck," Shadow grunts, and he looks mad. "Don't talk. You're losing too much blood, I'll have to take you back to our medics."

The soldier should be retaliating. He will likely be taken prisoner. This is compromising the mission. His handler will not be pleased with him.

But he finds he can't do anything. The darkness swallows him greedily before he gets the chance.

* * *

When the soldier opens his eyes he is flooded with immediate panic.

He can't remember where he is, he can't—where are the Black Arms, did he fail? His handler will not be happy, he will have to be wiped, fuck—he—he doesn't want to be wiped, it hurts so bad—

Strong hands grab his own and their touch is grounding. The soldier relaxes and looks to this person.

Shadow the Hedgehog is watching him with wide eyes and a vague frown. "Chaos, calm down."

The soldier complies because it is all he knows. He does his best to control his breathing and tame his nerves. It does not help much.

"Can you breathe okay?" Shadow asks, tentative. "I didn't want to remove your mask because it felt—I don't know, violating or some shit if I took it off. But—" A hand reaches for his face and the soldier instinctively grabs his wrist, yanking it away.

"_Don't._" His primary objective is to not reveal his identity to anybody except his handler. He has already failed one mission. He cannot fail another.

Shadow blinks, then dawns a more hostile look. "Fine. Excuse me for being considerate."

They lapse into a silence. The soldier takes a moment to gain his bearings. He's strapped to a bed, with wires and electrodes hooked up to him and bandages wrapped around his torso, soaked through with red. His handler is nowhere to be seen. He will be very unhappy when the soldier returns. He is in enemy territory.

He starts to leave, but Shadow restrains him. "Hey, chill the fuck out for a second. You're too injured to walk. You need bed rest."

He does not need anything. He is more of a failure every second he wastes here, not returning to his handler.

The soldier remains in his spot and watches Shadow. A question drifts through his mind.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?"

Shadow bristles. "Chaos. I don't know, I thought we agreed we had a common enemy. I couldn't just—leave you to die."

The soldier falters. He did not agree on anything. He does not recall ever encountering Shadow the Hedgehog before now, despite how familiar he seems.

"You are incorrect. We have never met."

Ruby eyes twitch. "Oh, fuck you. I've saved your ass multiple times now. What do you mean we've never met?"

"I am regularly wiped for optimal efficiency," the soldier says. "My handler does not wish for me to become hindered by my memories. They are a distraction."

Shadow blinks. "_What?_" The soldier nearly repeats what he just stated, but it seems to be a rhetorical question. The hedgehog swallows thickly and lowers his voice. "Look, you don't have to go back to Eggman. That is—what he's doing to you is fucked up on so many levels."

The soldier grinds his teeth together. "I don't have any choice in the matter. I am supposed to return to my handler immediately. I should not be here right now."

"He can't force you to do anything," Shadow says, his eyes alight with something the soldier can't quite identify. "He can't make you go back."

The soldier has to go back.

_(He doesn't want to go back.)_

The soldier does not make any move to stand back up. He remains in the bed. Perhaps this is better. He is not in proper condition to return, now. He would not make it very far with the gash in his stomach.

There is a pregnant pause. "You said you didn't have a name."

The soldier does not remember this. This conversation must have occurred before he was last wiped. He says nothing.

"I could help you think of one."

He does not need a name. Names are for people, beings of worth. He is not of worth. He is a soldier who completes his tasks and does as his handler instructs.

Instead of voicing this, the soldier beckons to the armor on his right shoulder. There is a serial number printed on it.

"My technical name is 623-19-91."

Shadow shudders. The soldier does not understand why. He looks extremely uncomfortable. "Fine, then how about… I'll just call you Six, for now."

The soldier considers this. 'Six' must be in reference to the first digit in his serial number. He supposes that if that is a convenient title for Shadow, then that is acceptable. He nods in compliance.

Shadow's lips twitch, almost into a smile. Almost.

* * *

When he leaves Six alone in the medical bay and enters Tails' office, Shadow can tell that the fox is decidedly not thrilled about their new guest.

"He works for Eggman," the kit says in place of a greeting. "I don't even understand why we're helping him. For all we know, as soon as he's able he'll kill us all in our sleep."

Shadow crosses his arms. "I think he needs our help. Robotnik is… He said he regularly gets his mind wiped. He talks like a fucking robot, like he doesn't even _matter—_"

Tails scowls. "For all we know he_ is_ a robot."

"He's not."

"Well he's certainly close to it," the fox snaps, raking fingers through his bangs. "Scouts have reported sightings of this guy for months. He's fast, he's strong, he's dangerous. He's a liability. He's a _killing machine._"

"He's _brainwashed,_" Shadow nearly yells. "Or something of the like. He doesn't remember who he is. He thinks his name is a bunch of fucking numbers."

Tails fidgets uneasily for a moment. "As soon as his vitals are stable, you take him as far as possible from here. The last thing we need is Eggman tracking him down and finding our headquarters."

Shadow wants to argue, wants to let Six stay here because whatever Eggman is doing to him is completely inhumane and should not happen to any living being, but he concedes. This is the best offer he's going to get.

He just—Shadow's _been _there. Not to the same extent, obviously, but—but there was a time where all he wanted was to complete his goal, and when he had a complete disregard for humanity. And… he doesn't think he ever would have snapped out of that if Sonic hadn't shown him what it meant to be human. Sonic gave him the courage to defeat the Biolizard and sacrifice himself to save the world he once despised. Sonic taught him to feel again. He taught him to love.

Shadow wants to be the one to show Six the same thing.

When he returns to the medical bay, Six is still there, staring at the ceiling as he takes steady breaths. Shadow has decided that he is probably a hedgehog, what with the odd way his helmet is shaped to accommodate what is probably quills beneath it. He looks at Shadow as he approaches the bed and retakes his seat beside it.

"You can stay until you're healed," Shadow says. "Nobody else here trusts you enough to let you stay any longer than that."

Six just stares at him. He doesn't like how he's covered head to toe in that black armor. It makes him even less human and more robotic. He practically looks like a mannequin as he watches Shadow. "You shouldn't trust me. We are enemies."

"Six. Do you want to return to Robotnik?"

A long, uneasy silence. "My orders are to—"

Shadow stops him. "No. Do you _want_ to?"

Six shifts. "I cannot want anything. I do what my handler tells me to do."

"But there's something in you," he insists. "There's _something_ that's stopping you. You've spared me in the past. You haven't made any attempt to escape here."

Another pause. "Escape is futile currently. I am restrained and apprehended."

Okay. He needs a different approach. "What is it like when he… 'wipes' you?"

Six seems startled by the sudden question. He is silent for a moment. "I am sent to an electric chair for an unknown amount of time until all I can remember are my basic orders of doing what my handler tells me to."

Shadow grimaces. "And—that must be painful. Do you want to experience that pain?"

Six flinches, just slightly. Shadow doesn't miss it. "… It is not ideal."

Shadow wants more than anything in this moment to find Eggman and sock him in the face. He's—he's manipulating Six, hurting him, abusing him. It is so _wrong. _And Six doesn't even realize that.

For now, he waits, and watches over Six as he rests.

* * *

The soldier is not sure how he feels about Shadow referring to him as 'Six.' He felt fine when Shadow elected the name, but actually _using_ it—it's strange. He cannot remember ever having a name. All he knows is when he woke up in his cell, a blank slate, prepared to carry out his missions.

He tests it out, in his mind. _Six. My name is Six._ Part of him tells him that it isn't quite right, but not because he thinks he shouldn't have a name. No. Because there's this tiny piece of him, a little voice in his head so quiet he can barely hear it, that tells him he has a _different _name.

When he tries to remember his real name, it makes his head hurt. He decides to settle on Six, for now. He likes the name Six.

_(He's not supposed to like anything.)_

Six would argue that it is more convenient. The word 'six' has less syllables than 'soldier,' thus making it a more efficient term to refer to him as. And that is his purpose. To be as efficient as possible.

For the first time in nearly a week he is outside again. Bandages are still wrapped around his chest but they are hardly necessary. This is his time to leave. His wound has healed and the rebellion has met their end of the deal. He is not welcome here anymore.

That works for him. Six belongs back with his handler. He really should not have been here, in enemy territory, in the first place.

He steps forward, his boot landing in soft grass. A breeze rustles past him. He hasn't been outside without his armor on before, and he briefly wonders what it must feel like to have the wind tickling his face. He thinks he'd quite like to feel that.

_ (He's not supposed to like anything.)_

Shadow is watching him anxiously. He has been watching him anxiously since he first woke up here, but this time it feels more pressing. "Six…"

"Thank you," he finds himself saying, and the words somehow feel both foreign and familiar on his tongue. "I—would have died if you hadn't brought me here." _I would have failed my mission,_ is what he doesn't say. Six has come to realize that Shadow gets uncomfortable when he discusses his mission or his handler, so he has decided to avoid those topics. He doesn't really know why he should care. That little voice in the back of his head tells him to be more considerate to Shadow. He chalks it up to being a returned favor for saving his life.

Besides. He already failed his mission anyways. This just prolonged him having to face that fact. Now there is no going back.

"Look, you—" Shadow trails off and Six turns to face him. "… You can't stay here. But maybe I can help you find somewhere else to go. You can't return to Robotnik."

Six blinks. "I have to."

"You _don't,_" the hedgehog grits out, looking suddenly very frustrated and very emotional. It's jarring. "Six, he is hurting you. Gas-lighting you. Abusing you. I can't let you go back."

In an instant Six has a knife to his throat. He instantly regrets it _(because he doesn't mean to scare Shadow, it was just an instinct, a compulsion, he swears)_ because—he realizes they're still on the doorstep of the rebellion's headquarters and he is vastly outnumbered.

Shadow jostles and holds his hands up. Six feels something hot and writhing stir in his chest. "You don't tell me what to do."

Shadow looks helpless. "I wasn't—"

"I'm sure I'll see you eventually," Six says, tucking his dagger back against his hip. He turns to leave and doesn't look back when he murmurs, "Though I doubt I will remember you when that time comes."

Everything inside him screams for him to turn around. He doesn't—he doesn't _want_ to go back, he's going to be hurt and scolded and he'll have to stand up straight and stare at a wall for _seventy-two_ hours this time, and—and he's going to forget Shadow.

Six doesn't turn around.

* * *

_In his dreams, he feels soothing hands running along his body, pulling him in close and never letting go. He sees obsidian quills and streaks of gorgeous red. He hears melodious laughter that makes his heart flutter. He hears himself whispering his name—Shadow—and it makes him feel so full, knowing Shadow is here, Shadow will keep him safe, he always will—but it's—it's so far away, just a distant dream, he can't feel him anymore—_

Electricity burns into his skin. The soldier opens his eyes and he doesn't know where he is.

* * *

Knowing gazes burn into the back of his skull. Shadow frowns and pointedly ignores all of them.

He knows precisely what they're thinking, what they've been thinking for the past few days. Skepticism has been in its prime with this stranger in their territory, this enemy. But they all trusted Shadow enough to heed his words. And Shadow did not fail them, really. Six never hurt them. He thanked them for healing him and returned back to Eggman with the promise to not reveal their location.

_(And it hurt, it hurt so bad—he felt like he'd just been getting through to him—)_

But they're all still staring at him. There's still this blanket of tension that falls over the room when he enters, thick and woolen and far too uncomfortable for his tastes. This hasn't happened since before the war, before the invasion, before—before _he_ disappeared.

Sonic went missing, all those months ago. He's presumably dead, at this point. Shadow did not take it well for a long time.

And they all knew. Rouge and Tails, especially—he spent many long nights crying into Rouge's arms after stirring awake at three in the morning, restless and distraught. Shared many mutual silences with Tails, because they both loved him so much, they both ached so much. In different ways, of course. But it was love all the same.

Shadow likes to tell himself he's moved on at this point. He still longs for those gentle touches and that jubilant laughter and those soft, blue quills sometimes, but—but he's managed. He's fine, now.

And then this Six guy came along. The blanket of tension that had just started to shrivel up draped over him again, like a ghost, following him everywhere around HQ. Nobody dared to say anything to his face, but he could still read the melancholy, uneasy looks in their eyes.

They thought he was trying to—fuck if he knows, trying to fill the hole Sonic had left behind. Find love again. Find his other half.

(He wasn't. He wasn't.)

(Was he?)

Shadow takes a measured sip from his coffee and tries not to grimace as the bitterness and the heat scalds his tongue.

* * *

The soldier is trembling. He doesn't know why. He decides this must be some error, some glitch—he should tell his handler of this as soon as he completes his mission. This is some minor fault, something overlooked. He is to be perfect in every way, blending perfectly in the shadows, hidden from the naked eye.

He continues to shake, and it's so miniscule it's hardly noticeable, but he can't control it.

(Stop. Stop. Stop. S-St_op it, please—_)

Something flickers through his mind like lightning, grasping numbly for something, anything, as pain racks his body and steals him away. His head is pounding. Vaguely, he hears his own, distant screams, like a phantom of something that never was. He shudders harder. He wonders what he was like then, before he was conditioned into what he is now.

And, yes, he—he knows there was a _before._ He doesn't think he is supposed to. According to his handler he is supposed to be a blank slate. And yet there's something, lodged in the back of his head, gently tugging at him. It whispers faintly to him, and sometimes—when he closes his eyes and takes a steady breath and lets the orders and missions and pain leave him for a moment, he suddenly feels fuzzy all over and there are people, surrounding him and laughing and filling him with mirth, with _love—_fuck, he misses them so much—he doesn't even know who _they_ are—

The soldier shakes himself and straightens slightly in his position, as much as he can as he's kneeling in the shadows. _Focus._

He has been charged with the task of assassinating a member of the rebellion. He does not know the reasoning behind this mission. As far as he's concerned, the Black Arms are the top priority. They're rapidly overrunning the planet and all natives of Mobius, empire and rebels alike, are quickly losing their grasp on it. Albeit, the resistance certainly are not considered allies—but the soldier still thought they should be more focused on handling the aliens, first.

His handler seemed tense as he had dished out his orders. Almost angry. The soldier did not know what he might have done to cause such distress to him. He can't remember anything; he's been freshly wiped. But perhaps that was the causation of his recent wipe—perhaps, before, he had disobeyed, deviated. That certainly would not do.

He will not fail his handler. He will make him proud, like the perfect soldier he is.

Voices near, and he blinks; steadies himself. Raises his rifle.

Two bodies round the corner and the soldier freezes up, and—its two females, definitely not his target. But perhaps their conversation will be of use. Perhaps they will lead him straight to his actual target.

As he eavesdrops, he quickly figures their conversation is worthless.

"I'm just—worried about him," one says, low and urgent. "He's been losing sleep the past few weeks. And believe me, I know, because I can always hear him wandering around in the kitchen late at night for hours."

The other frowns. "But he's _Shadow._ He's immortal, so he doesn't need sleep, right?"

The first rolls her eyes. "Technically, no, but I think he needs it more for his mental health. And you can't deny that he's been obsessed with that Six person. That definitely spells trouble."

The soldier wavers. The girls continue talking but his mind is lagging behind and he can't quite keep up. The—that term, _Six,_ strikes him strangely. He feels ice crawling through his veins, paralyzing him, and suddenly he can't think straight. _Why—what is—_

He opens his eyes and the girls are already gone. He blinks wearily.

He's shaking again.

(This is more than a simple glitch. There is something wrong—he's remembering things he shouldn't be, faltering over the most trivial things, a useless number. He should be wiped. Surely he will fail this mission, in his current condition. He is too distracted. He feels unnaturally tired. This is not efficiency. He cannot complete his mission like this. He is going to fail. He is already failing, because he might have just lost his only lead to where his target is and he's distracted and discombobulated and so fucking _lost—_)

"Six?"

The soldier feels something hard and painful twist in his gut, and he jerks his head to the right, pulling his rifle up to aim. His hands are shaking tremendously. He feels so exhausted.

There is a figure staring at him, eyes blown wide and utterly still; shocked. The soldier has failed his mission, officially. He was not supposed to be spotted. This was supposed to be an efficient, quick mission. In and out. He was supposed to stick to the shadows and never be seen, but he's been caught.

He is a blemish in the Eggman Empire. He resolves that he shouldn't just be wiped, he should be executed for his failures. He is a failure. He failed his handler.

Blood is rushing to his head. He feels like he's malfunctioning.

(This person. Does he know him from somewhere?)

The helmet tells him it is _Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion._ His red eyes are filled with such a strong and complex emotion that the soldier's disheveled mind cannot decipher it.

Shadow the Hedgehog cautiously brings his hands up over his head upon comprehending that he is being held at gunpoint. There is a new, dangerous look to him. The soldier trembles harder. Every breath he takes is painful to his lungs.

"… Six. Look at me. What are you-?"

Shadow the Hedgehog takes a tentative step forwards. Something clicks in the soldier's mind. His target. He is to assassinate Shadow the Hedgehog.

_Complete your mission. Complete your mission._

Thoughtlessly, he pulls the trigger. There is a loud crack through the air, a strained yell, and then the soldier's muscles give out and he falls into nothing.

* * *

They hold Six in a cell. He's been motionless since his capture—nearly sixteen hours, now. Despite being shackled to the wall and unconscious, he seems peaceful, for once. Tails tells him that they wanted to remove his armor and helmet, but they couldn't figure out how without cutting open the man inside as well. It's like it's a part of his body. So they leave it on, and use extra restraints instead.

Shadow feels conflicted. Part of him is glad Six is here; because they can keep him safe, they can help him—but the other part reminds him that this is a coldblooded killer, that he is chained to a wall in tiny cell.

It's dehumanizing. Six has been dehumanized his entire life, Shadow figures. It's sickening.

"Soon as he's awake, we're gonna try and interrogate him," Knuckles tells him in passing, when Shadow's condition is stable.

Six shot him—and the group is understandably mad—but really, Shadow is _fine_ (he tells them all as much, like a broken record, but he knows they don't believe him). It just nicked his leg. Six was clearly very distressed and on the verge of collapse. He doesn't blame him. Just Eggman.

Amy still shoots him a reprimanding look whenever he tries to get out of bed to see if Six is awake yet. Rouge still shakes her head when he insists it barely hurts. Tails still refuses when he asks to enter the cell and try to talk to him.

And it eats Shadow alive. The last thing he wants right now is to be trapped in bed over some meaningless injury. He's perfectly fine. He knows Six is fine, too—as much as he can be. He just can't seem to get that through his friends' skulls.

(He can't blame them, really. They're just concerned. They've always been concerned for him, ever since Sonic disappeared and suddenly the world seemed a lot more dull.)

When Tails enters his room, Shadow is mildly surprised. The kid has been working nonstop, adamant on studying Six keenly and thoroughly. Tails looks frazzled and fatigued and Shadow almost wishes he were able enough to head out to the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.

But then they lock eyes and Shadow tenses, accordingly. Tails sucks in a tight breath.

"He's awake."

* * *

Water burns down his throat, pooling in his lungs and weighing him down further. Every passing second the sunlight above fades further away, as he sinks lower and lower, and he is lost to a darkness that wants to swallow him whole. He gave up trying a long time ago. Now he just watches, as if through a window, feeling his nerves grow numb to the cold.

It's becoming so dark he isn't sure if he's just too far under or if his consciousness is seeping away. He doesn't know which is worse. He doesn't know _anything._

Something catches in him and a small burst of air bubbles up in his chest. It's enough to blink his eyes open, just a little.

He still doesn't think it's enough. It never is.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, the soldier_—Six—_feels a lot of things all at once.

The first is the most apparent. His head is pounding agonizingly, and his entire body trembles in fatigue. _This is improper,_ a voice murmurs in the back of his head. _Weak. You are useless to the empire. A disappointment. A failure._

The second is a lot less blatant and a lot more confounding. It is best described as a conglomeration of every sensation he has ever felt and the feeling of absolute emptiness, overflowing within him, drowning out all of his senses and bleeding into every tendon and ligament and bone that he is composed of.

And he hates it.

The entire world feels like it's spinning. There's nausea churning in his stomach and a smoldering rage burns wildly inside him, clashing against this dull sorrow that saps from any remnants of strength he still has. He can't think straight. Nothing makes sense. Words flicker across his vision too fast for him to comprehend, disobedient, wrong, blemish, no, sto_p, please, wrong, please, soldier, six, soldier soldier soldier six six six-two-three-one-nine-nine-one—_

(—there's something else, a different name, just out of his reach and he misses it so badly, wants it more than anything, _please,_ give it back, give it _back—_)

"Six."

Everything freezes and it's so fucking cold.

Red eyes gaze into his own. They're soothing. Grounding.

"Six, I need you to take deep breaths. Calm down."

He complies.

He does not know what he is or where he is or who this is or why he is here or how he got here but—"_Shadow._" This name feels somehow both foreign and so familiar on his tongue. But it is a compulsion to say it, he realizes as he rasps it out between heavy, struggling gasps.

Shadow falters. "You… recognize me?"

He doesn't—Chaos, he doesn't _know. _He doesn't_ understand. _"I-I—I don't…"

A hand rests against his shoulder. Vaguely, he wishes there wasn't the barrier of his armor blocking off the touch. "Okay. Don't talk yet. Just focus on breathing."

Silence seems to stretch out for an eternity. He doesn't know how long it goes on. Every passing second makes his chest constrict even tighter.

"Six?" Shadow's eyes are wide and so confusing to focus on. The mere sight of those bright, ruby orbs makes him want to cry and he just doesn't understand _why._ He doesn't understand anything that's happening.

_What is happening to him? What the fuck is he?_

"Six, is it—" a hesitant pause, "is it okay if we take off your helmet? You're having trouble breathing."

His helmet. Right. His helmet is supposed to protect him, keep him safe. It gives him information. He runs a scan and it immediately spots Shadow's face, right in front of him, and tells him _Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion._

So he was right. This is Shadow. But how did he—how does he know who Shadow is? Why is he so familiar? He doesn't even know his own goddamn name. He doesn't understand why this is happening or why it's so—so _overwhelming,_ so _suffocating._

Shadow repeats his question.

He is so desperate to end the agony and the confusion. He nods helplessly, nearly sobs. He can't get out any words. _Make it stop. Make the pain stop. Just—Just wanna be able to think and remember and breathe._

Shadow runs his fingers around his neck for a few minutes, trying to find some sort of button or clasp to remove the helmet. This proves fruitless. "Can you do it? Or tell me how?"

His face is wet with something. He can't tell if it's tears or sweat. He doesn't know. He doesn't know.

"Six?"

His stomach does a somersault and there's a painful, grating voice in the back of his head that's screaming and kicking and unraveling the last bits of coherency he has left at every passing moment. _A failure. Return to your handler to be executed for your failure. You are a failure. Return to your handler. Return to your handler. Return—_

He grits his teeth and brings his hand to the nape of his neck. His fingers brush against the miniature sensor and he instantly feels the nanobots working against his face to retract into his suit. He blinks rapidly and gasps for clean, fresh air as his helmet slithers into the collar of his armor. A new feeling of cold meets his bare face he realizes how drenched he is in sweat.

He looks at Shadow. He _needs_ him. He doesn't—he doesn't even know what Shadow is, but he needs him, he needs him so badly, to help him. Shadow will know what to do. Shadow can make all the pain and confusion go away.

Shadow stares at him with a blank, pale face. He is gaping like a fish out of water and his eyes are distant and misty.

The—the soldi—Six—he doesn't _know,_ watches Shadow helplessly. _Do something. Help me. Make everything safe. Please._

Tears brim in Shadow's eyes and—and _what,_ he doesn't understand, why is—_what—_

"You're—fuck, I—" Shadow pushes himself to his feet and stumbles backwards, as if he's contagious or toxic. He doesn't want Shadow to go. He wants the pain to go away. Not Shadow.

He looks, miserably, hopelessly, discordantly, into Shadow's eyes. His throat is raw and his entire body is burning alive.

"P-Please," he manages, somehow. "_… I don't know what I am._"

Beads rolls down Shadow's face like raindrops on a windowpane. There is a flurry of people and shouting all around him and it's too overwhelming to concentrate.

And then he is alone again.

* * *

Shadow pulls himself out of the cell and stumbles forward aimlessly, meeting the warm, comforting arms of Rouge. She hugs him and all he can do is let out a long exhale and melt into her embrace. He feels sick.

"It's—"

"I know, hon." She sounds distraught, though not nearly as much as himself. "I know."

Shadow pushes himself away from her and staggers drunkenly towards the one-way window, where everybody else had been observing him in the cell. There are rebels scurrying around the room and arguing over what to do. It is a cacophony of horror and anger and absolute disorder. Shadow becomes deaf to it all, just presses himself to the window and stares at the person on the other side, still chained to the wall and slumped on the ground, barely conscious.

He is still stuck in his armor, but now his helmet has been removed. Now they can all see his face. It makes tears simmer in the corners of Shadow's eyes.

Because he is staring at a ghost.

Because the person sitting in that cell is Sonic the Hedgehog.

* * *

**but wait! there's more!**

**this fic is actually my first ever _two-shot_ :) the second part is already done aside from a few more edits, and it will be up next week, so stay tuned for that!**

**anyways if u enjoyed, lmk!**


	2. Chapter 2

**sdjglkdfj here's part 2! thank u all for ur support and patience so far :) i hope the wait was worth it haha. anywho enjoy!**

* * *

"We—We have to remove the rest of the armor."

Nobody really has the strength to respond to Tails for a good few seconds. It's been hours since this… discovery, and yet they're all still reeling. It's Sonic. They thought he was dead. Taken by the Black Arms or Eggman or the like. But he's here. And alive.

Shadow lingers in the back corner of the small room, where they've all been doing nothing but staring at Sonic through the one-way mirror. The hedgehog looks miserable; so tired and distraught and broken. Shadow wants nothing more than to hold him in his arms again and tell him everything will be okay, that he's safe, that he missed him so much.

But he can't. He can't do anything right now because everyone's still arguing over how to handle this and they're treating Sonic like he's some science experiment that they have to keep stable and isolated or else he'll explode. And Shadow frankly doesn't know how to confront him, even if he were allowed.

Sonic doesn't remember anything. On top of being—being _brainwashed,_ by Eggman, his walls seem to be crumbling and he's going through some sort of identity crisis. Shadow doesn't know if they should pile more confusion on top of whatever turmoil he's already going through.

So instead he's been sitting here, for hours, propped motionless against the wall with hardened eyes and crossed arms, watching. Listening deftly to the bickering and dismay of his friends and the rest of the rebels. Staring into the discordant, beautiful emerald eyes that can't see him through the glass. Sonic is shaking uncontrollably, still shackled to the ground because he's still Eggman's little soldier (the thought makes Shadow cringe), but he looks so… still. His gaze is blank, like he's—like he's trapped in his own mind.

Shadow figures he probably is, even if he doesn't know it.

He licks his lips and looks to Tails, who's wringing his fingers with red-rimmed eyes and casting a desperate look across the small congregation of people allowed in here.

Amy looks uneasy. "He's very… unstable right now. I don't wanna upset him."

"But Tails has a point," Knuckles says. "He could still be armed or—or there could be a tracking device on it."

"I know, Knuckles, I just—this is a lot to process. I'm scared and, and he's our friend. We haven't seen him in so long."

Another silence, this one longer and more tense. Shadow feels like he's going to choke to death on how thick the oxygen between them feels.

Rouge steps up. "Maybe Shadow could try to talk to him."

He blanches and something cold crawls down his spine. "I don't know if that's the best idea."

"No," the bat shakes her head. "He seemed to recognize you, back there. If there's anyone we can send in to at least_ talk _to him, it's you."

Shadow looks to the others for a consensus, suddenly finding it very hard to swallow the gross knot stuck in his throat. Tails nods hesitantly to him.

"What do I even-? Do I tell him? Am I supposed to interrogate him?"

The fox frowns minutely and turns back to look at Sonic. The hedgehog's breathing still seems rapid and anxiety racks his body. "Just start with calming him down, maybe. We'll have to take this slow, I think."

Shadow takes a deep breath, and plunges.

* * *

He thinks maybe he's getting closer. It's not as dark anymore and the sunlight reaches down far enough that it isn't as cold anymore.

The current still pulls roughly at him, so malicious he can't do anything but drift along and wait for it to bring him to his destination.

His lungs still burn.

* * *

Shadow approaches him like he's made of glass. Sonic hardly seems to notice.

Green eyes drift lazily to him when he gets close enough and kneels beside him. Sonic looks defeated, completely limp on the ground and panting, on the verge of hyperventilating. He searches Shadow's face wildly, like he's trying to decide if he's a friend or foe.

He smiles tentatively, small and plastic. "Do you… Do you know who I am?"

Sonic stares for a long, long time. Every second that passes makes Shadow's heart thud harder in his chest, so hard his ribs ache.

"Sh.. Shadow."

It's posed like a question, almost.

When Shadow finds his words again, they're heavy on his tongue. "Do you know who you are?"

Another long, dead stare. Impassivity quickly morphs into hysterics, as Sonic's face twists up like he's sucking on a lemon and tears well in his eyes. His tremors crescendo into something that makes Shadow's breath catch in his throat, and he swiftly raises his hands to try and calm Sonic down.

He never speaks, just vigorously shakes his head and locks his jaw to trap the sobs. Shadow wants so badly to just hug him and tell him _it's okay to cry, it's okay to be upset._ But he—he can't get ahead of himself, this isn't exactly _his_ Sonic, this one is different and unstable and fragile.

"Hey, don't—I'm sorry, forget I asked, alright? Take deep breaths. In and out." Shadow demonstrates with his own deep breaths, that admittedly help placate himself. Sonic watches him in a panic for a few moments, before he sighs heavily and seems to relax a bit. Emerald eyes bore into him intently.

"… Look, I understand that things are confusing right now. But I promise, you're safe now. We're here to help you. I'm going to help you."

Shadow wavers, then holds out a hand. Sonic stares at it bizarrely.

"Do you want me to stay? Or do you want to be alone?"

Something wild flashes across Sonic's face and he grabs weakly for his hand. Shadow simply lets him, and smiles when he feels him squeeze it.

"Don't—" Sonic rasps, and he looks so desperate and scared. "Don't go. I-I don't… Don't understand—"

"Calm down," Shadow says, and Sonic obliges, swallowing the torrent of words that are spilling out of his mouth. "Just try to rest, alright? I'm not going anywhere."

Sonic nods slowly and relaxes against the wall behind him, never once letting go of Shadow's hand. After a while, Shadow settles down to sit beside him. For the first time in over a year, there is a spark of something that flares to life in his chest—hope, joy, he doesn't really know—but it's warm and familiar and it leaves a lingering smile on his face as he doses off.

* * *

His vision is clouded by a blob of faces and his hearing swarmed with discordant voices. They're all bickering in hushed shouts and staring at him with big, wide eyes like he might crumble if they look away. Maybe he will. He already feels like he's crumbling anyways.

Shadow is here to hold his hand, the only constant that he can appreciate. Shadow calms him down. Shadow keeps him safe.

He feels so hopelessly alone. And he's so sick of it.

They ask him lots of questions that he doesn't know the answers to. _What is your name, do you know where you are, how do you feel. _They all filter into the growing whirlpool of confusion and panic, spinning steadily and quickly gaining momentum in his head. He doesn't know anything and he doesn't understand why they can't understand that. He just wants to sleep.

All the while, Shadow rubs soothing circles into his palm. They have long since pried away his thick black armor and given him a gray sweater that's much too large for him, but it's soft and comfortable and they insisted that he looked cold. It's strange because he feels anything but. He's drenched in sweat and he feels like he's coming down with a fever, but he supposes that he has been shaking for a long time, now.

He's also begun to notice how they all tiptoe around addressing him with a name, which is frustrating in itself. They keep asking him if he knows his own name when they clearly already do, but then they refuse to say it.

Eventually he grows weary of sitting in this dark, humid interrogation room. It's been hours and he just wants to rest and be alone.

His ears fold back against his head and he tries to work his tongue, but it feels thick and numb in his mouth. "… Who am I?"

The only other two that have had the will to remain in here, an orange fox and a pink hedgehog, blink owlishly at him. They exchange a fleeting, anxious glance with Shadow.

The fox rakes his hand through his bangs. They hang low now, as opposed to a few hours ago when they seemed perky and just a little messy. "What do you mean?"

"My name," he says, and those words alone feel forbidden as he utters them. "Why won't you tell me what it is?"

It's the pink hedgehog that speaks this time, albeit hesitantly. "We just—you're very… uh, stressed right now. We don't wanna overwhelm you more that we already have."

This makes him angry. They don't want to _overwhelm_ him? Why can't they just leave him the fuck alone? Why can't they give him some real fucking answers?

He nearly voices this but Shadow squeezes his hand. When he turns to look at him, Shadow looks tired and sad.

"We're trying to help you," Shadow says. "I know you're confused and scared right now but I promise, we're going to help."

But the questions keep bouncing around in his skull and beads of sweat cling to his quills and his entire body aches with pain and he can't really tell if that's true.

* * *

Somehow Shadow convinces the others to let Sonic stay with him in his dorm. He can't blame them all for being wary. So it's a surprise to him when they finally concede. He'd insisted that Sonic's mental state would only worsen if they threw him back into a cell, and besides, if he ended up trying to pull anything, Shadow would be able to apprehend him immediately. That apparently convinced them enough.

(Besides, he can't help but feel the pure selfish need to just hold Sonic in his arms again. He never said this to the others, but somehow he feels like they can tell anyways.)

He settles Sonic down on the bed gingerly, and brings the blankets over him. The speedster sheds his sweater and sinks easily into the mattress, letting a long, heavy breath wash out of him. Shadow smiles a little at how relaxed he looks, before walking to the other side of the bed to lay down beside him.

Sonic clutches the blankets tautly, his gaze fixated on the ceiling. There are dark purple bags under his eyes.

His body is also riddled with dark purple bruises, some of them gray and green. But Shadow doesn't bring them up.

Tentatively, he stretches an arm over to link his fingers loosely around Sonic's. Emerald eyes drift over to him. They're dark with exhaustion.

"I'm glad you're here," Shadow whispers. Sonic just continues to stare, blinking lethargically. "… I missed you."

Sonic swallows thickly and Shadow watches his throat bob. He then releases a trembling breath and lets his eyes fall shut, but Shadow simply watches him. It feels surreal to him. He's been conscious of the fact that Sonic is _alive _and _here _for the past twenty-four hours or so, but right now, snuggled beneath blankets in bed, it is the first time that Sonic looks like himself. At peace. Calm. Content.

Shadow circles his thumb over his boyfriend's knuckles and lets slumber creep over him.

* * *

He drifts through a sea of darkness.

Tiny, insignificant bubbles of air race upwards, past him, too fast for him to catch and too tiny to matter. His lungs feel like they're shriveled up in some dark pit inside himself, already devoured in the ravenous, agonizing hunger for oxygen that has overtaken all of his senses.

It's strange. He can move about fluidly, if a little sluggish. The darkness extends out for an eternity, so large that his feeble mind can't even begin to comprehend it. But he feels so trapped. The pressure feels like it's making him collapse in on himself. His entire body feels like its decaying, melting into the void.

The only thought his mind can conjure is a bunch of scrambled numbers that only rack his body with more pain. They're endless and incessant and he doesn't know if he wants them to go away or not, because if they go away then at least the pain will stop, but then he'll be left alone again, without any thoughts of his own.

He's so tired of being controlled. He doesn't even know what's been doing it, but he just knows that there's been—_something._ Something tying strings around his wrists and ankles and throwing him around like a worthless puppet.

The numbers sear into the forefront of his mind and he curls into himself to try and ease the flaring pain. It does little to help. He wants to scream but he's too scared that the water will seep into his mouth and flood into his lungs if he does.

_Six, _his brain keeps repeating to him. He doesn't understand it.

_Six six six six six six six—six, s—six, S… S-So… Soni—s—_

_ Soldier._

The pain ebbs away and he takes a gulp of bitter saltwater without even realizing it.

_Soldier. Return to your handler._

_(—no, go away, stop—)_

_ Return to your handler. Return to your handler. Return to your h—_

* * *

Wakefulness surges through his nerves, suddenly and painfully, like a jolt of electricity.

The soldier opens his eyes and he doesn't know where he is.

* * *

Shadow has grown to be a light sleeper. He always was, relatively, but months of living on edge, on fear of being discovered by the enemy, has conditioned him to stir awake at the slightest movement or sound. It's a nuisance, when all he wants is to rest but the distant clatters of someone shifting around in the kitchen, or in the medical bay, or _wherever_ keeps him conscious and jittery. But he supposes it's for the better. He doesn't technically need sleep, anyways.

It's just a nice solace, from everything else he has to deal with. A comforting few hours where he can simply close his eyes and let his mind fall silent.

Now, however, as wakefulness startles in him and urges him to lurch upwards, it isn't just a minor nuisance, an irritant that scrapes at his temples. It is a horrible feeling of unadulterated fear that lapses over him, like a rough, untamed wave, pulling him under into a manic frenzy.

The body beside him is climbing out of bed.

He grapples lamely but it's already standing, moving stiffly towards the door. Shadow's tongue is heavy in his mouth and a bitter flavor finds its way in there from his dry throat. He blinks the sleep away and is already slipping out of bed as well, before his mind has fully caught up and processed who else is here and why they are leaving. He just knows they shouldn't be.

"Wait, where…?"

The silhouette falters and glances to him. Glassy green eyes pierce through the darkness of the room and something cold lances through Shadow, sudden and chilling.

"Hey," he murmurs, stumbling forwards. The hedgehog grabs Sonic's wrist, stares at him carefully, pauses. Sonic makes no move to say or do anything. His expression is utterly dead. "Come—Come back to bed. Just lay down. Do you need anything?"

Sonic blinks languidly, and he trembles just slightly. "I need t'… need to go—"

"No, no," Shadow says, as gently as he can. He starts trying to lull his partner back to the bed, but Sonic is stubborn and frozen in place. "If you need something, I'll get it for you. You just need to lay down."

"I—" the cerulean male swallows thickly, gazing longingly at the door. "… My handler, need to…"

Shadow's heart stutters. He moves to grip Sonic's shoulders, firm and strong. "Calm down. You're not—you're _here,_ okay? Not there. Don't worry about that."

"_No!_"

Sonic wrenches away from him. And Shadow's too—_scared,_ because the last thing he wants is to upset him, or alarm him, or make it worse—

"I-I have to…" Sonic looks so lost, so confused. "Have to… I'm being bad, I-I…"

"You're not," the agent says, insistent. He tries to reach for Sonic again. "Just take a deep breath, honey—"

Sonic rears back, like some skittish woodland creature, and with a snarl, he slaps Shadow's hand away. Hard.

There is a long, thick silence that drapes over them, and Sonic's nearly hyperventilating, but then he just—he blinks, rapidly this time, and his eyes are filled with tears and horror and pain and it hurts so bad to look at, but _Chaos,_ it's miles better than the hot, angry emptiness from moments ago. Shadow exhales slowly, but doesn't move, too scared he'll upset him again.

They just stare at each other for a long time, before Sonic seems to crumble. "… S-Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I'm so sorry." He tries to take in oxygen but it won't filter in, he's choking on his own breath and—

"Hey, calm down, calm down. You didn't do anything wrong. Just breathe."

Emerald eyes linger on him, potent and wide with terror, before he finally gasps for air and lets them flutter shut. Sonic staggers wearily into his chest and just about collapses entirely. Shadow is resolute in his embrace, not letting him fall. He'll never let him go. Not again.

Sonic sobs into his chest fur, squeezes at his sides with taut fingers. "Sorry, I-I'm sorry, I don't—"

"You don't have to apologize," Shadow whispers into his ear. Sonic whimpers.

"Tell me," he moans. With a frown, Shadow pulls away slightly to stare into his puffy red eyes. Sonic digs his fingers further into his sides. His voice is hoarse and miserable and gut-wrenching. "P-Please, tell me."

Shadow is so scared to let go. Instead he rubs his thumb gingerly against Sonic's cheek. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me who I am," is his reply, and it sounds so terribly broken that Shadow can feel something like a knife twisting in his gut. "Please, Shadow… Please…"

He sighs; obliges.

* * *

Shadow leads him to a small and dank bathroom. He settles him on top of the counter, just beside the sink, and turns to draw a bath. A tense silence permeates the space between them, filled only by the heavy rush of steamy water from the spout. It continues for several minutes until the water is about three-quarters of the way up the tub, and Shadow turns the knob until it is completely silent again and the waters falls still.

He's helped down from the counter and walked slowly to the bath. Shadow urges him to get in without speaking. And it's sensible, really. His entire body is mottled with purple and gray and sickly red. His fur is matted and greasy. It's sensible for him to be bathed.

But there's something_—something—_nestled deep in his core that's screaming at him. Telling him to _get away get away,_ because the water is dangerous, it'll swallow him whole. When he's in water he's stuck, too slow, unable to escape.

He sways and takes a step backwards. "I-I don't wanna."

Shadow looks at him and when he looks back he doesn't see surprise or annoyance in those bright ruby eyes. It's almost understanding, as if Shadow expected this reaction from him. "Why not?"

"It's…" He doesn't _know._ He asked Shadow for answers because he doesn't understand anything and he's sick of it. He doesn't _know_ why he's scared of a stupid bath. "I just don't."

He's cast a longing look, one that asks for permission, almost precarious, before Shadow slips his hand into his. The dark hedgehog rubs easy circles into his palms.

"Do you remember your exercises?"

He stares bizarrely at Shadow. What kind of question is that?

Wordlessly, Shadow pulls off his gloves and dips a hand in the warm water, before bringing it up to him and extending it out. He hesitates before grasping it. Moisture smears against his hand and chills race up his spine.

"Now just take a deep breath," Shadow says, with a practiced, calm demeanor. "In and out."

He does.

The ebony male nods to him, then beckons to the tub. "Can you dip your hand in?"

This is… weird. There's something vaguely familiar about this. An old habit. "Yeah."

He does. The heat of the bath saps at his fingertips, and there's anxiety swirling in his chest but Shadow reminds him to take a deep breath and it helps quell his tremors, just a little.

"Do you remember this?" Shadow asks, again. "At all?"

"I…" he wavers, pulling his hand out of the water and watching beads of liquid drip back down to the porcelain tub. "I don't know."

Shadow laces his fingers around his own, the dampness mingling between their palms. There's a tight squeeze that helps ground him; makes his stomach flutter. "The bath is safe. It's shallow and warm. We can drain it. You can always get out. You're in control."

He nods, processing Shadow's words. "I'm in control."

Silence falls over them again but it isn't tense, it isn't too heavy. Shadow helps him step into the tub and sit down in the water. It ripples against his bare chest and he shudders as warmth crawls along his skin. It's soothing, despite the numb screams of anxiety that protest against this in the back of his mind. _He's in control. He's safe._

Shadow clears his throat, crouched down beside the bath and still holding his hand. "We used to practice this a lot. You've never liked water."

No, he supposes. He hasn't.

He scrubs mindlessly at a clump of dried, blackened blood on his thigh, and it starts to flake away in the bathwater. "Sorry about… earlier," he mutters. "Got confused. I thought—I don't know. It was like I couldn't think, I just… I had to leave."

Shadow looks at him almost urgently. "Do you know where?"

"N-No." His ears fold back against his head. "Sorry."

He swashes his hand freely back and forth, watching the surface oscillate in its wake. He locks eyes with Shadow.

"Can you… tell me, now? Everything. I'm so tired of—of not knowing."

Shadow smiles tiredly and runs a hand through his disheveled blue quills.

* * *

There's a voice in the back of his head warning him against it, but Shadow tells him everything. He tells him about the ARK, how he nearly died, and how they found each other again. He tells him about their adventures, saving the world together, side by side, with all their friends. Of how they always managed to thwart the evil and reign victorious. Of their stupid dates at that old, run down diner, where Sonic always insisted that their chilidogs were the best in the city. He tells him that he was a hero; _is _a hero.

He tells him how much he loves him. How he loved Shadow, too.

Sonic looks uneasy, with his knees drawn to his chest and slumped so low that the bathwater is nearly to his chin. He's processing. He doesn't leave a single comment or ask a single question as Shadow rambles on and on, so long that his mouth feels dry and his throat burns. All the while he starts to wash Sonic with a cloth.

Finally, Shadow helps him out of the bath. Sonic shakes like he'll fall to his knees if he lets go, so he doesn't. He makes sure to prop him against the counter before he scours the bathroom for a towel and pulls the drain from the tub.

He wraps the hedgehog up tight in the old towel, and rubs his arms soothingly. "Are you alright?"

Sonic pauses, then nods. His eyes are wide and glassy again but there's still—still that underlying sorrow and confusion. He's still _himself,_ not that _thing _Eggman made him into.

"My name is Sonic."

Shadow smiles unsurely and squeezes his shoulders. "Does that… jog any memories?"

He sniffs and bows his head. "I don't know."

Something melancholy churns in the pit of Shadow's stomach. That seems to be all Sonic is able to say, lately. He can see the frustration brimming in his jade eyes, the distraught. The agony of feeling closed off from the world, from his entire life. If he could trade places just to make Sonic feel better, Shadow would, in an instant.

"I wanna sleep."

Shadow bobs his head and guides him back to the bedroom.

Behind them, the last of the bathwater swirls down the drain.

* * *

In his dreams the pressure alleviates, almost imperceptibly so. But he notices. He notices how much more fluidly he can move, how sometimes a miraculous rush of air floods into his lungs and keeps his heart beating just a little longer.

But it's still too murky. And the surface is still too far away.

* * *

It gets a little easier. Shadow manages to coax him out more and more, just so he can interact with the others and feel less alienated. Sometimes he'll catch a smile flickering across Sonic's face, or a softening of his gaze when he's asked what he wants for breakfast.

It is, regardless, far from easy. He's constantly plagued with a newfound worry, especially whenever he and Sonic are apart. He can't help it, really. And given that he hasn't gotten a single patronizing stare from any of the others since Sonic began his recovery, Shadow assumes that they are vividly aware of this.

They begin talking to Sonic more. Tails grows less wary and Amy quickly returns to her overly flamboyant self. Knuckles is still standoffish but he always has been, so Shadow figures he can't expect much from him. But he can tell that Sonic feels just a little safer, a little calmer, as every day passes.

He's cautious about their boundaries. This Sonic, although being Sonic, is not his Sonic. He is, essentially, an entirely new person. It doesn't concern Shadow _(because he refuses to let it)_ because he knows it must only be temporary. Soon enough it'll all come back to him. His memories—they're just repressed, behind months of brainwashing and gas-lighting. They just have to sift through all of that to find them again.

Case in point, Shadow doesn't want Sonic to feel uncomfortable. He'll be there for him in an instant, of course, but he won't shy away from keeping his distance. This Sonic isn't his boyfriend. He's hardly even his best friend. He's simply a vessel, finding his way, and he needs support. It's obvious enough that despite being an amnesiac, Sonic still clings to his subconscious affection for Shadow. He still eagerly allows him to snuggle in bed or hold his hand. But Shadow, unless he receives full, emotionally stable consent, refuses to go beyond such. Not even a small kiss.

It hurts him, just a little, knowing he can't really… _reunite_ with Sonic. Because he's here, he's safe, Shadow can hold him in his arms again and keep him from harm, but—but he's still not quite _here._ He still has episodes where he wakes up a different person, where he thinks he's just a soldier again. He still has panic attacks and meltdowns because of his arduous identity crisis. And, even if he does remember one day, Shadow knows it still won't be the same.

This isn't his carefree, arrogant, fun-loving boyfriend anymore. He's… severely fucked up. Of course, this doesn't deter Shadow in the slightest. He has already made it his mission to continue to fight for Sonic for the rest of his life, no matter what it takes, because he will always love him no matter the circumstances.

It's just… stupidly hard. But they'll get through it. They have to.

* * *

Two weeks pass and they decide to let him out into the field. Shadow isn't quite sure how they came to this decision, as he certainly doesn't agree with it, but Sonic is so insistent and he is vastly outnumbered.

Sonic is anxious to get out, which, okay, Shadow can give him that. He'd be anxious to get out of the stuffy compound too, after being holed up for weeks. It's just—scary. If he freaks out or gets hurt or _anything—_

Rouge is at his side, suddenly, squeezing his shoulder. "It's gonna be fine, hon. Blue can take care of himself."

Shadow crosses his arms and tenses. "I know."

When he turns back to their bedroom Sonic is already suited up, pulling on his boots. He convinced the others to let him wear his old, scuffed up armor—mainly because, although once the Hero of Mobius, he's now a trained assassin. And, therefore, the suit was his best bet. Plus, Tails was excited enough to repair and upgrade it himself.

The hedgehog presses something at the back of his neck and obsidian nanobots glide over his face to form his helmet. He exits the room and stops beside Shadow to give him a determined nod.

"Remember," Shadow says, lowly. "If you need to get out of there, for whatever reason, you just tell me. It can get intense out there."

Sonic stares for a moment, but it's impossible to read his eyes from behind the tinted mask. "Okay."

Their mission is simple enough. They're just scoping out a nearby Black Arms hive some scouts had reported to them the other day. But it's likely going to get messy, and Sonic receiving another episode of PTSD or an anxiety attack is the last thing he's going to need. Sonic can handle himself, though. He trusts him, even in the unstable state he's in.

Shadow guides him down the winding halls till they meet up with the others and Knuckles gestures for them to follow after him. The mission is to be silent, hence why it is nighttime. Anything to hide them from the aliens is useful.

They head out towards the nearest metropolitan area—a wrecked, vacated Empire City—and discover the hive only a few miles away, on the outskirts. This one is particularly large and nasty, its gushy black walls slick with an unknown fluid. The structure is lumpy and vaguely dome-shaped, and tunnels branch out of it and weave around abandoned buildings and beneath the ground like the rotting roots of a sickly tree. A few Black Arms grunts patrol around outside, but they know enough to know that the majority of the aliens are inside.

Most of the group decides to wait outside (because the Black Arms love to call for help from nearby pods) while Shadow leads the charge inside. Knuckles and Rouge and the rest are able to take out the lurking aliens, and Shadow approaches the entrance with Sonic.

Shadow pulls out a pocketknife and plunges it into what he assumes to be the front door to the hive. It's this big, thick, leathery material that almost looks like it writhes in pain when Shadow stabs it, and it's enough to elicit a little bile in the back of his throat. Sonic watches him work silently, as he starts slicing along the edges to cut it down so they can break in.

Once he's cut a hole in it, the wall-material flops over like a massive tree frond, and Shadow is quick to catch it to avoid any noise, before slipping inside. Sonic is right behind him.

They stay low to the ground and take a moment to scan their surroundings. It's dark and the air is heavy, and Shadow feels sort of like he's inside the stomach of one of the aliens. Everything is coated in a vulgar film of slime, and not too far away, more Black Arms soldiers are travelling up and down the corridors, transporting supplies and conversing in their strange language.

Shadow glances around until he spots the main hall—which is really more of a large, gross tunnel lit up with dim yellow lights along the flooring and walls, and eerie red veins streamed arbitrarily down it. He gestures to it to get Sonic's attention.

"That's where we need to go," he murmurs under his breath. "We need to take out their leader. It'll send them into a frenzy but they're easier to deal with that way."

Sonic studies the tunnel before nodding at Shadow. He says, soft but firm, "Right behind you."

* * *

When they arrive in what Shadow can only describe as the throne room, Sonic tells him, absolute, undeterred, "Let me do it."

The alien rests in the center of the room, bolted to the floor and ceiling through the broad, black veins that run from its body and along the walls like snakes. They thrum steadily, with whatever sort of liquid is pumping throughout the hive to keep it thriving and sturdy. Shadow can feel it pulsating through the walls; through the small squish each step of his makes against the uneven floor. If he thinks too hard about it, he might get nauseas, so instead he focuses on Sonic's words.

"Are you sure?" he whispers back. They keep their voices low to avoid detection. Similarly, they're currently hidden out in the corridor, peaking cautiously into the room to look at the dormant beast.

This one is larger than the others, its skin scarred and lit up with unnatural bulbs and glowing streams of alien light; the top of its head is pointed like a crown. Although it seems asleep, Shadow has no doubt it is doubly more menacing than its lesser companions. It's the leader of this hive, after all—the one they've got to take out.

Sonic nods, and withdraws his knife. Considers. "Yes."

Shadow tentatively reaches over to squeeze his hand once. "Be careful."

And Sonic looks at him strangely, this weird fog in his eyes, but then he shakes his head to rid of whatever thoughts clouded his mind, and nods affirmatively. Carefully, he crawls into the room, his blade at the ready, and approaches the creature. Shadow holds his breath and watches.

When he gets close enough, Sonic stops and raises up his wrist, moments away from plunging it into the skull of the alien, but then he just—stops. Trembles. Stumbles backwards.

A pang of worry slams against Shadow without warning, and he's already scrambling to his feet before he really comprehends what he's doing. He figures he should probably regret drawing attention to himself, but Sonic clearly isn't okay, and that's top priority in his mind. "Hey, are you-?"

Sonic falls against the wall behind him and black muck squelches against his suit. He gasps, seeming to gradually come to his senses, and tries to stabilize himself.

But it's too late. They woke it up.

The armored hedgehog clutches his temples as the thing begins to stir, grumbling in the back of its throat as the veins tethering it to the ceiling and ground start to retract, and it pulls itself to its feet. Sonic looks desperately at Shadow, and he's shaking, just slightly. "I—shit, I'm sorry, I just panicked, I don't—"

"Look out!" Shadow shouts, firing his pistol at the monster as he lunges into the throne room. It screeches as the bullet burrows into its shoulder, losing its balance and bearings momentarily, before it steadies again. This one apparently has thicker skin than its subordinates, evidenced in how it literally plucks the bullet out like it's some annoying bug nibbling at it. Its skin wraps over the wound before settling back into place, and suddenly it's as if Shadow never shot it to begin with.

At least that's enough to slow it down, though, because as it recuperates Sonic lunges forward, shoving the thing on its back as he tries to drive his blade right through its chest. Except that's futile too, because the plating there is even harder, impenetrable. Sonic tries to chip away at it before hastily deciding to go for the neck. He barely nicks its chin before the beast hooks one of its massive paws around the hedgehog's waist, and chucks him across the room.

Shadow is frozen, for a moment, trying to scan its body and find a weak point that he can easily access. There's also panic thudding inside his chest with each reverberating heartbeat, as he finds it hard to tear his gaze from Sonic, slumped against the wall on the other side of the room.

The creature turns swiftly to Shadow, and bellows out an ear-grating cry, and charges towards him like a maniac. Its eyes simmer with a feral rage that he's grown accustomed to over the course of the war, from all the other aliens, but this one seems far more passionate and terrifying. He hardly has a chance to brace himself for impact from how fast it tears across the space between them.

And he expects pain—he expects claws ripping into him and alien slobber dripping over his face and the crushing weight of the massive thing pinning him down. But instead, there's an explosion, the entire hive seems to shake, and a ravenous heat presses against him—and then the alien cries pitifully and there is nothing.

Shadow pries open his eyes and inhales sharply, a rush of adrenaline rolling over his body because _holy fuck,_ he's still in one piece.

The hive, conversely, is not.

It's more of a crater of black goo now, with the ceiling almost completely torn off and all the alien corpses strewn about, in plain sight. Shadow is briefly stalled by the sudden sensation of the night's cool breeze, and he simply processes. Swallows in the scene around him. Sonic, he realizes, is clambering slowly to his feet, still several meters away but at least intact.

There is a chilling laughter from up above that makes Shadow's blood boil.

Dr. Eggman hovers not too far away in his Egg Mobile, a gloating smirk at his lips as he shimmers ever so brilliantly in the moonlight. He seems particularly conceited here, and it is from this deduction that Shadow pieces everything together. He notes how the Egg Mobile seems more bulky than usual, equipped with a massive cannon that hangs beneath it like the stinger of a wasp. How smoke sizzles from its nozzle, the immediate aftermath of a blast; how, adjacently, the devastated hive simmers with hot black goop.

When he looks over to Sonic, he sees a paralyzed, stiff silhouette that can't tear his eyes from the madman. Shadow raises a placating hand, slow enough to not startle the man that practically holds them at gunpoint, and calls over to him, "Hey. Sonic. Look at me."

And he hopes.

Sonic eventually obliges in a slow, robotic motion, and Shadow wishes so badly right now that he wasn't wearing his helmet.

"Are… you alright?"

Sonic is silent. And then—"F-Fine."

Okay. Okay. Good. He's still… himself. _(For now.)_

A rush of something, icy and terrible and agonizing, races down Shadow's spine.

The doctor laughs drily. His gaze is locked directly onto Sonic. "Took you long enough to show your face. I've been on a wild goose chase, looking for you."

At this point the rest of the resistance members that tagged along for this mission are approaching, from where they'd been hiding outside of the hive. They're slow and uneasy.

"What do you want?" Shadow snaps, because he's frankly already fed up with Eggman's presence. The corporeal anxiety that wafts off of Sonic in suffocating waves doesn't help, either.

"Well, I'll put it like this," he replies, and the cannon attached to his Egg Mobile starts to heat up with a dull yellow light. "You can give me back what is mine, or I can kill all of you."

"You're outnumbered."

Eggman shrugs, and there's something so blasé about him that puts Shadow on edge. "Well, technically, yes. But I've also just obliterated an alien hive, and caused quite a scene with that blast. I'd give it another five minutes before more Black Arms start to show, and I don't think they'll be very happy."

And—fuck. _Fuck._ Shadow hadn't considered that, but the doctor is right. That's why they keep these missions quiet in the first place—because the aliens are all connected, somehow, and they can sense when their brethren are injured. They're going to seek vengeance, one way or another.

He opens his mouth to object, to find anything to say, rifle around for some sort of advantage, when Sonic steps up. "I'll go."

Shadow clenches his jaw. "No, you can't just—"

"You need to run," Sonic tells him, and his words drive right into Shadow like a sharpened blade. "And—And you need to stop pretending you can salvage whatever the hell I'm supposed to be. I'm not _him._ I haven't been him in a long time, and you have to accept that."

_He—no, Sonic, he can't—_

"Please, Shadow." He taps the base of his skull and his helmet recedes into the collar of his suit. Sonic's eyes are heavy and tired and sad, and Shadow feels an aching feeling twist around his heart. "Just go."

There are screeches in the distance, loud and terrible, and he knows there is no time.

Shadow flees, alongside the rest, and ignores the moisture that pricks his tear ducts.

* * *

He's thrown into his old room.

(No, that isn't right.)

He's thrown into his old cell.

It's smaller than he remembers, and as he reels on the floor, sprawled out and gasping for breath, he feels a tightness coil up in his chest. The oxygen feels like it's running thin in here, and the door is locked and he won't have any way out—

But his handler will be back soon. He'd told him simply that they only needed a few minutes to prepare, and then—and then he would be wiped again, and he would forget.

It's for the better.

That's why he's here, isn't it? Because he realized, back in the hive, that he couldn't keep living a lie. He couldn't keep playing pretend, trying to be someone he's not, constantly living in the shadow of someone else; of someone better than him.

Sonic was strong. Sonic was full of life and joy and love. He never faltered, never quit, never gave up.

He is weak. He panicked instead of just stabbing the alien and killing it. He's scared, and drained, and the sight of water still makes him uneasy, and sometimes he just feels so _stuck,_ so alone, like he's trapped in this little cage and the iron bars are smelted around him, hardened and thick and unbreakable, a prison that never wilts.

And he feels guilty. He's felt the guilt tugging at him persistently, ever since he woke up, _really _woke up, and his mind was still a whirlwind of soldier and Six, and Shadow was there, and Shadow held him. He felt it persist in the heavy, sad looks the others would cast him as he roamed the halls of the resistance's base. In the way Shadow would stare at him distantly, whenever he pretended to be asleep and the bedroom was too dark for Shadow to tell that he was awake. In the way he'd nearly catch the remnants of whispered, hushed conversations, that echoed bitter words of _'but it's not really him.'_

So this—this must be better, right? At least here he has a purpose, at least here he can't mess up. Once his mind isn't plagued with these muddled thoughts anymore he can just follow orders and rest and forget. He can just _be._

The robots return to fetch him.

They drag him down the long, dark corridors of his handler's headquarters until he's back in a far too familiar room and he's being strapped down to the same cold, metal chair he always sits in. Steel fingers work intricately to place electrodes on his skin and tighten his leather bonds. His handler stares at him from across the room, his face a blank slate.

He thinks of the alien, sleeping in the throne room of the hive. He thinks of drawing his knife and lifting it up and nearly plunging it right through its skull. He thinks of the fear that seized him, the hesitance, the words that rang clearly and painfully through his head that told him _no, not anymore, not again._ He thinks of the raw urge stewing in his gut that knew, in perfect resonance with his conscience, that he can't kill anymore. He _can't._

His handler says something to the robots and they press a few buttons on the machine and it starts to whir to life.

He's going to forget everything, any second now. He's going to forget who he is, who he was. Shadow.

And he—he doesn't _want_ that.

He wants to go back. He wants to be held in Shadow's arms again and he wants to feel safe. He wants to learn about who he used to be. He wants to hear more stories about how brave and compassionate and strong Sonic was. He wants to tell Shadow that he's sorry, for not being good enough, for hurting him. He wants—

—He wants to _breathe _again.

Lightning consumes his body, hot and seething, and he's pulled under again.

* * *

This time, he is not alone.

A hand makes its way into his line of vision, more of a dark silhouette than anything else amongst the murky waters. His ears ring with pressure and salt burns his eyes and his skin feels pruned. But the hand stretches out before him, a calling gesture, and somehow he finds the strength to fight against the current and grab onto it.

The hand squeezes his own. He exhales, and the last bit of air left in his lungs escapes his nose and flitters away in tiny bubbles. He closes his eyes and doesn't let go.

And then there is a rush. It's thrilling, and it gets his heart beating faster and faster and he suddenly realizes he doesn't remember the last time he's felt so alive. It's like he's being dragged along by a roller coaster, except this is so much _better _because somehow it awakens his senses enough for him to know that he's being pulled straight upwards, towards the surface.

The water glides across his body, rough and coarse and nearly painful but he doesn't care, he's swallowed in a feeling of exhilaration, and all he can think is _faster, faster, faster._

A blast of cold slaps him in the face and he peels open his eyes against the sizzling, vibrant sunlight that rests on the horizon. He is surrounded by hundreds of miles of open sea. But this time he's not stuck underneath. This time he's breached the surface.

He laughs, a stupid thing, and his vocal chords feel sore as they work in his throat. Oxygen pours readily inside of him and he breathes, really, truly _breathes,_ and it's the most magnificent sensation he's ever experienced. The sun is warm on his face and he calms down enough to wade steadily at the surface of the ocean. He simply balks, spinning around and absorbing in the beautiful, gorgeous, amazing sky wrapped overhead in a dome of indigo. Seagulls flutter by and the clouds look so light and puffy, he feels as though he could almost reach up and graze them with his fingertips.

The hand slips away from his, and he turns.

He meets a pair of green eyes. They belong to a sleek, nimble body, drenched to the bone and shivering slightly from the cold waters. But this person's got a smile painted on their face, and their quills are so amazingly _blue_ against the dark sea and the pale sky that it's almost too wonderful of a sight for him to take in.

The stranger's eyes glisten with mirth when they speak, and their voice sounds so easy and strong it sparks jealously in his chest. He still feels so shaky and tired, and his throat burns raw with saltwater. He just doesn't have the energy to talk.

"Hey," they say to him, and they drift forwards to wrap their arms around him. He lets them. "It's okay. You're okay, now. I'm sorry I took so long. But we're here."

He wants to tell them,_ it's fine, I didn't think anybody would come for me anyways, _but then he blinks and they are gone. He now drifts alone in the deep, calm waters. There is a new warmth that continues to encircle him, even now, as he is no longer held in their embrace.

And he smiles.

_I'm okay now._

He breathes.

* * *

The alarms screech into Shadow's ears like nails on chalkboard. He grinds his teeth irately and pushes himself further, deeper into the labyrinth of grays and reds and cold, frantically scanning his surroundings.

It's strangely vacant here, save for the occasional badnik that he whips past so fast they hardly have time to react to him. In any other circumstances that would probably be cause for worry, but here, now, he only has one priority, and it has consumed him wholly. He doesn't care what the doctor is planning. He just need to find Sonic.

Eventually he stumbles upon what he'd presume to be some sort of control room. It's decently sized and, surely enough, occupied by the man of the hour. There is a large contraption in the center of the room, several wires running from it to a metal chair, in a tangled mess.

Sonic is sitting in it, strapped down and hooked up like a science project. He's unconscious, and his entire body convulses unnaturally as electric currents ripple over him.

Shadow kind of wants to throw up.

Instead, he kicks down the door, Chaos Energy thrumming in his blood and making such an action swift and effortless. Eggman jostles at the loud noise and takes a step back as the hedgehog enters the room. Shadow figures he's quite a sight: glowing red with Chaos, a sneer pulled at his lips, shaking with palpable anger. The doctor seems to think as much.

"Let him go," he says, each word drenched in venom. It is a simple demand, and he hopes Eggman is sane enough to abide.

He does not. Instead, the man slowly walks over to a control panel against the wall, fiddles with a few buttons—and then the large machine Sonic is connected to hisses and the engine dies. Sonic falls still, his eyes remaining closed. He almost looks peaceful.

"Soldier," Eggman barks, and Sonic startles awake, like a deeply buried instinct. It makes Shadow's stomach turn. "At attention."

Sonic blinks blearily, trying to take in his surroundings. His wrists are bound to the arms of the chair and he seems completely dazed. Every now and then, a shudder crawls over him and he grimaces involuntarily.

The doctor attempts to cross the room to reach the hedgehog and Shadow makes to stand in the way, but then Eggman draws out a gun. "I'd stay back if I were you."

_Fuck._ In any other case this threat would mean nothing to Shadow—he'd take a bullet any day for Sonic—but being incapacitated right now, not even sure of the current mental state of Sonic, deep within the bowels of Eggman's territory, doesn't necessarily spell out anything good for him. Begrudgingly, Shadow lifts his hands up and backs up to the wall. Eggman grumbles and strides up to Sonic, starting to unfasten his bindings.

The blue hedgehog watches the doctor with a dim look on his face, almost like he's half asleep. He looks twitchy, though Shadow figures he can chalk that up to the electrocution. Subtly, slowly, Sonic's features draw into an almost-frown, and Eggman seems oblivious as he frees him from the chair and takes off the electrodes stuck to his body.

And then he shoves his gun in Sonic's face. "Prove your loyalty to me, soldier. Kill him."

Shadow's blood runs cold and he shifts his weight uneasily. Sonic looks at the thing like he's never seen a gun in his life, and blinks languidly. Mulls it over.

He takes it; feels its weight flow to his hands. Looks the weapon over, and grips it tightly.

A smile, sickly and large, stretches across Eggman's face, and he takes a few steps backwards to observe from afar. Shadow can tell the fucker is just—eating this up. He wants to be mad, wants to shove a Chaos Spear down his goddamn throat, but then—then Sonic stands up and his finger curls over the trigger and he lifts up the pistol, and Shadow freezes up.

"Sonic," ghosts from his lips, an impulse, and Shadow instantly thinks that it's stupid because the last thing he needs is to freak out the unstable person wielding a loaded weapon, but Sonic just stops at the sound of that name. His eyes are wide and so, so green as they gaze right over at Shadow. "… Honey, look at me."

He flinches at the way his voice breaks off into a cracked whisper. Sonic swallows thickly but doesn't lower the gun. He keeps it trained right at Shadow's face.

"I love you," he tells him, because he doesn't know what else to do, now. He's going to die here. There is no going back. "Always will. Just do what you have to do. I won't be upset."

Sonic is weirdly stiff and he seems a little more awake now—less stuck in his lazy trance. Shadow can almost see his lip quivering, if he squints. It's such a quiet, unnoticeable thing.

He flicks the safety off. Shadow closes his eyes and waits.

Gunpowder explodes across the room.

A fatal silence drapes over them all.

And Shadow opens his eyes.

He exhales, a shaky thing that leaves him alongside a great deal of tension—albeit, not all of it. His muscles are still tight and he doesn't attempt to move from his spot, because he doesn't really know what just happened other than _something isn't right, because_ _I'm not dead._

Sonic's back is to him, and his entire body is racked in violent tremors, his shoulders hunched with stress. He hiccups quietly and a pang of remorse hits Shadow so hard it draws tears.

He asks, just a quiet murmur, "Sonic?"

When he turns around there are tears streaming down his face and a wretched, distraught look in his eyes. The pistol slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground, and it's now that Shadow notices there is blood splattered on the wall behind him, and he can see a large body slumped against it.

Sonic wipes his eyes uselessly and he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Shadow is with him in an instant, hugging him like if he lets go the whole world will crumble around them. Sonic wavers only briefly before a sob tears from his throat and he holds Shadow back, burying his face into his shoulder. They slowly settle to their knees, too weak and shaken to stand.

"Shadow," Sonic stutters out, "Shad—_Shads,_ I'm—it's me, it's _me,_ I'm so sorry…"

And he locks up, blinks wildly, pulls away from their hug; cups Sonic's face. "You're-?"

Sonic nods frantically and his face screws up as more moisture pools in his eyes. "It's me, I—I _remember,_ Chaos,_ I remember,_ I'm so—"

Shadow kisses him, such a thoughtless, gentle thing, because he's known this whole time that the first thing he was going to do when he found him again was kiss him. Sonic barely reacts at first, until he just relaxes in his arms, exhales, and reciprocates. It's brief and doesn't go anywhere beyond that but that's okay, because they're here, they're together, they're _safe._

"Sorry," Sonic murmurs, and he curls up to tuck his head under Shadow's chin. "So sorry, didn't remember sooner, couldn't—"

Shadow quiets him with a firm kiss on his forehead, and he rubs easy circles on his back. "Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. It's okay."

A whimper slips out from Sonic, and he holds Shadow tighter, like his life depends upon it. Shadow smiles into soft blue quills and hugs him back, just as tight.

There's still a war waging outside. Still an army of aliens swarming the planet. But Shadow isn't worried anymore, because he has Sonic, and he knows that if they're together they can do anything. So he relishes in this moment, and they just hold each other for a little while.

And they breathe.

* * *

**aaaaaaahh,, so. that's that! i'm pretty proud of this fic, and it's been in the works for a few months now, so i'm glad to finally finish it. if u enjoyed lemme know with a fav, or leave a review!**


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